


Down on the Street

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Impala Sex, Rule 63, deancest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Deanna blow off steam after a hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down on the Street

**Author's Note:**

> for deancest december on tumblr!

Dean still can’t get over how well they fight together. Maybe he never will. It brings a grin to his face, the way she will duck when he swerves, blonde ponytail whipping over her shoulder, cocky crows and zingers on her lips.  
  
Showtime: A werewolf, and a vicious one at that. He’s snarling and on Deanna, and Deanna kicks beneath him, scrabbling for violent purchase and thrashing to avoid teeth. She gets in one sharp thrust with her knife and opens a long cut down the werewolf’s side. He snarls and recoils-- it gives Deanna the leverage to shove him off of her and scramble into a low crouch. The wolf recovers fast and slashes blindly with his claws, and Deanna roars when he rakes four lines through the thin brown leather of her jacket, and cotton and skin below.   
  
Dean leaps on the werewolf from behind. He wraps a silver chain around his throat and drags it taut, and the werewolf makes a strangled, guttural noise and flings his head back. Dean reacts reflexively, but skull still cracks against the bridge of his nose, and Dean stumbles backwards one step, twothreefour. He still holds tight to the chain.   
  
The were takes advantage of his moment off balance and rushes Dean backwards, slams him hard against the slime-slick stone wall. Hard enough that Dean feels his teeth rattle. Hard enough that his breath huffs out in a grunt.   
  
“Deanna--” Dean growls, cut off in another grunt when the werewolf slams him against the wall again. “Can’t hold on forever.”  
  
Deanna yanks out her gun and aims it point blank. Her breath hitches when she realizes she can’t shoot without risking Dean, but she’s already back in motion, shoving the pistol back into the holster strapped to her thigh, fisting a knife and pressing up to the werewolf in three long, springing strides.  
  
“That was my favourite jacket, dick,” Deanna snarls, before driving her knife underneath the werewolf’s chin and twisting up into his skull.  
  
Crushed between himself and his doppelganger, Dean can practically feel the life flee the werewolf, and it sags, held up by Dean and Deanna’s weight pinning it. Dean lets go of his chain and shoves the monster corpse away. Deanna stumbles a little. Maybe on purpose, maybe Dean doesn’t care, because she falls against him, and his hands wrap around her toned biceps, and the heat that radiates from her soaks into his flesh and twines with his frenetic, adrenaline-spiked _wanting_.   
  
Deanna presses her mouth to Dean’s, and _fuck_ , he more than lets her, fucking moans when she licks her tongue into his mouth and rubs it along his own. Dean twists their bodies until it’s Deanna’s back pressed against the wall. His hands slide down her sides, over the generous swell of her ass, grip the backs of her thighs, one thumb hooking into the leather of her gun holster. Deanna’s arms wind around Dean’s neck and she hitches her legs around his hips, groans into his mouth when he rolls against her, hard length of his cock grinding between her legs through their jeans. Deanna ruts back, panting, whining, pent up battle lust begging to be released.   
  
Part of Dean wants to, wants to fuck Deanna right here and feel her shudder and come around his dick while jagged brick digs into her ass. But there’s the thick smell of blood and rot and slime around them, and there’s the dappled blare of street lights and traffic less than twenty feet away.  
  
Dean pries his mouth from Deanna’s and noses behind her ear. “Not here,” he mumbles.  
  
Deanna lets out an impatient noise. “Don’t be such a sissy.” She wriggles against Dean, and Dean feels his cock jump.  
  
“Cops’ll be here soon,” Dean says, still running his mouth along the soft skin of her neck. She smells like sweat and metal-tang and salt and grease and god, it makes him hard, suffuses him with yearning buzz in the pit of his groin. “Gotta get the hell outta Dodge.”  
  
Deanna sighs and slides her legs from around Dean’s waist. Dean feels the absence of her thighs crushed against him, wants to yank her body back, press their chests together and his tongue into her mouth. But they have to go.   
  
“Eyes on the job, right Winchester?” Deanna grins, and tugs her shirt back into place. The wound in her shoulder bleeds sluggishly, but she ignores it. “This isn’t over.”  
  
Deanna’s ass twitches when she saunters away, and Dean’s eyes stayed glued to it. He  wonders if he looks that good walking away. “Better believe it isn’t,” he mutters. He readjusts his belt and lopes after Deanna.

 

  
  
The tension is heavy between them as Dean grips the steering wheel of the Impala. He can hear Deanna’s harsh breaths. Deanna’s leaning back in the seat beside him, legs splayed, fingertips crawling over her knees.   
  
“Pull over,” she says, when they drive out of town.   
  
It’s on the tip of Dean’s tongue to say they can wait for the motel, but he glances at Deanna out of the corner of his eye, full lips parted, chest heaving, eyes half lidded and roaming over his body, and Dean jerks the steering wheel and pulls onto the shoulder, pulls onto on off road that’s dark and private _enough_. Tiny rocks grind under the wheels on the Impala and Dean and Deanna would both be gritting their teeth if they weren’t busy frantically unsnapping their seatbelts and scrambling towards each other. Deanna crawls into Dean’s lap and straddles him. She rubs down against him, shrugs out of her jacket and button up shirt. Dean wastes no time stripping her undershirt up and over her head. Yanks the straps of her bra off of her shoulders so that her tits spill out of the cups. Lowers his head and sucks one nipple into his mouth, and Deanna gasps. Dean sucks down harder and grazes the pink bud with his teeth. Deanna’s hands slide and clench in his hair, and Dean smiles. He knows exactly how much he likes this. He cups Deanna’s other breast in one hand, and she writhes against him. Her hand slide down to fumble with his belt buckle and Dean cants his hips forward to give Deanna freer access to his fly.  
  
A few awkward twists and maneuvers have Dean and Deanna both out of their jeans, and then Deanna is in Dean’s lap again. Bare skin against bare skin, fine blonde down on Deanna’s thighs brushing against Dean’s coarser hairs. Dean’s cock slides against the lips of Deanna’s cunt, slick invitation, and she jerks forward and sinks onto Dean in one, smooth, driving thrust. Deanna is hot and tight around Dean, and he moans: Shaking, drawn out, for the sheer pleasure of feeling Deanna consume him.   
  
She fucks Dean hard and fast. Hands brace against the headrest. Kisses Dean, whose mouth is open and needy, whose eyes are still open, pupils blown hazy. Deanna’s hips jerk until the vinyl seating is creaking under her knees and the windows fog up and Dean isn’t kissing anymore; he’s moaning, artlessly, mouth loose against hers, hanging on for dear life and breathing in that sweaty, salt-sex smell.  
  
Deanna’s sighing in her throat and rolling her hips and her nails dig into the headrest when she stiffens and comes, whimpered litany of _DeanDeanDean_ and her eyes squeezing shut, flying open, blinking shut again, the walls of her cunt clenching hard around Dean’s cock. He rocks back in his seat, thrusts upwards and groans. Comes hard, comes long, comes with a fistful of Deanna’s hair in his grip and her teeth sinking into his shoulder, and the kind of wanton, grunting, keening noise that would be totally embarrassing if he wasn’t essentially fucking himself. Deanna pants; _ah ah ah_ ; palm smacking the headrest next to Dean’s ear, rubs against Dean until they’re both spent and sagging. Dean’s softening cock slips out of Deanna and lies limp between their thighs--- Deanna stays in his lap, breathes ragged and deep. Dean kisses her, and her lips are damp.  
    
Deanna rolls off of Dean and shimmies back into her jeans. She sprawls on the bench seat, breaths still harsh, sweat cooling, jeans unbuttoned and bra rucked and misaligned.   
  
“Alright,” she says. “Now we can go.”  
  
Dean snorts; elation and exhaustion and amazement rendering him ineloquent (for at least the next four minutes.) He tucks himself back into his jeans and turns the ignition.  
  
The engine roars and the radio blares back to life. Tires squeal when they tear back onto the highway. They’ll fuck again back at the motel.


End file.
